


PWP

by kalliel



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Amara tops from the bottom, Dean Gives Oral Sex, F/M, Flash Fic, Incest taboo, M/M, POV Dean Winchester, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Rough Oral Sex, Season/Series 11, Weird Sex, galaxy porn, handless handjob lol, proxy fucking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-05
Updated: 2016-08-05
Packaged: 2018-07-29 12:43:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 700
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7684945
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kalliel/pseuds/kalliel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Basically, he's expecting God's Sister to dom the hell out of him. And he's expecting it to kind of hurt.</p>
<p>AKA, how to fuck a woman with a universe inside of her and live to tell the tale. Dean/Amara. Implied one-sided Sam/Dean. Implied past God/Amara.</p>
            </blockquote>





	PWP

**Author's Note:**

  * For [frozen_delight](https://archiveofourown.org/users/frozen_delight/gifts).



> This is the best thing I've ever written. I'm cackling.

Amara's not like any girl he's ever been with, and it's not just the whole celestial entity, God's Sister thing. Dean's had girls ride him like a cowgirl, he's had girls take him up against a wall. Hell, he's had girls tell him to lick his whole damn way to their ass, no shortcuts. Basically, he's expecting God's Sister to dom the hell out of him. And he's expecting it to kind of hurt.

But Amara lies back and spreads wide. Slow, languorous, quiet. 

Dead silent, actually. There's an entire fucking solar system in Amara's pussy, and it sounds like one. It drips meteors and bands of gas.

 "I'm not going into that," Dean says.

"You don't have to," Amara assures him. "You'll be gone for good if you do that."

Dean closes his eyes. That's heartening.

Problem is, he's really fucking hard right now.

Like, really.

"Just your tongue," Amara advises. "You'll be all right."

And God help him (ideally, literally), but Dean trusts her. He loses her gaze then, the dark frame of her hair against 100-count. He eats out a solar system on a bed that cost him $27 a night. Tongues the edges, then teases. Kisses the fold of her, pelvis against thigh. Amara moans. 

Her clit's not hard to find, because 1) Dean's a fucking master, self-professed or not, and 2) it's a small sun, beaming down on some galaxy that frankly doesn't know what hit them. It's pea-sized and sun-sized and Dean goes for it slow and hard. He's not sure what she tastes like, but he doesn't stop. She grinds against him, urging him faster, faster, 'til it feels like her fucking vag is giving _him_ stubble-burn, and the stars inside her burn, and he realizes that it does fucking hurt--just in this dull, protracted way, like the feeling's only hitting him after thousands of millions of miles.

Dean flicks his tongue like a dagger, and Amara makes a sound so true and whole it lances through Dean's head like a migraine, or the aftermath of a bomb. For a minute he can't hear anything, loses his bearings, and he thinks he's fallen in.

Then Amara twists the air around his dick, tender and bulging. He doesn't even touch him, just exhales, and her breath wanders. It hits him like a hurricane and his ears come back just in time to hear him yelp. He twists, smears his own jizz over his leg.

_Keep going,_ hisses Amara, not unkindly.

If Dean keeps going he thinks he'll puke, he's so tired, he's seeing an entirely different set of stars after _that_ blow, but he rests his head right up against her butt where it meets the bed, and his fingers slow dance along the edges of her pussy, the outer rim of some other universe.

Eventually, Amara closes her legs, and the black hole pull of her wanes. She becomes soft skin against him, sweat-soapy and incredibly warm. She folds over herself, contorts. Then they're face to face again, Amara toeing the headboard and Dean curled at the foot.

 "I can give you more than this world's ever offered you," says Amara. "You know how I make you feel."

Oh, Dean knows.

 "Hey, don't--" he starts, but he's voiceless. He doesn't remember talking quite that much; but then, he doesn't know how long it's been. Lightyears. Then he thinks, no, that's space; not time. Then he thinks, fuck it.

 "Don't bet the farm on novelty, sister," he wheezes out.

"What do you mean?"

She knows what she is, and she knows what she has.

"You're not the only one I've wanted, and hated wanting," Dean continues. "You're not--"

_The biggest mistake I could make in bed._ "You're not--"

_You're not him._

Dean banishes the image from his mind, the feel of him, that want, and thanks fucking God (ideally not literally) he's already had his one-and-done.

Amara smiles. There's a galaxy at the behind her teeth, too; Dean's never noticed that before. He's beginning to think he needs to have a whole new appreciation for supernovas.

 "You're not--" Dean starts again, but Amara's faster.

"We have that much in common, then," she says.


End file.
